Wednesday, February 26, 2014

I've had my job for just under eight months and I have officially reached the level of small-town stardom where I can't leave this building without running into someone who I know.

The post office is a nightmare. Starbucks is dangerous. I stick to the drive-through at Tim Horton's.

People I know through my job are everywhere. And I generally run into them at inopportune times. Such as when I was picking up Chinese food after a harrowing day a few weeks ago; I wanted food and to forget my day at work. Instead I get of our regulars, standing just ahead of me in line.

Today, I stopped at the grocery story for caramels and evaporated milk. It was the middle of a Wednesday afternoon: I saw no fewer than three people I know in the seven minutes I spent shopping for two items. One of them was my grandmother.

So, I've been singing the praises of a shorter commute but maybe I won't live right in town.

For the sake of sanity, anonymity and occasionally going out with a hangover, chipped nails and a messy ponytail.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

After asking for your opinion on the drab and empty walls of my office back in November, I completely neglected to update you all on the current state of my office decor.

I thought it would be fun to do a big reveal when I was finished. Then I realized that I'll probably never be finished.

In my original post, I mentioned a Word Cup poster that I had originally bought and framed for the ill-fated Colin. I found it in the basement and decided that it was too awesome to ever remind me of Colin. It went on the wall.

I am such a sucker for quote prints. I found a print of a Theodore Roosevelt quote that I especially love, a quote that is especially applicable to work, in colors that worked with my World Cup print.

I bought it from a seller on Etsy.

I finished up the wall with another Etsy purchase that I mentioned earlier this month: my monogram! I bought it unpainted and somehow managed not to ruin it in the process of painting it turquoise. Huge life victory.

Which brings us to a poor-quality photo of where I am at the moment.

Including needing to straighten out and recenter that World Cup poster, it seems. (I had to take everything down in the midst of our recent building problems.) And my credenza needs work. Including a lamp. And maybe a clock. Possibly something fun like a globe.

I'm not opposed to trying to keep a plant alive but that grape ivy plant, which was a very thoughtful gift, is living in a hideous basket that needs to go.

And I have another whole area above my bookshelf where something great should live.

Well. Maybe.

I'm trying not to turn the place into my freshman year dorm room, you know?

Please stop me if I mention anything about photo collages or Dave Matthews Band posters.

Monday, February 24, 2014

While it had been stewing in my head for quite some time, straightening out my housing situation came to the forefront this month. January was challenging. The weather was miserable. I was miserable.

I needed a change. Like, now.

Normally, I am happy to slowly meander my way towards a decision. I mean, seriously, what can't I over think?

For months, I had been paralyzed by the thought of buying a house. I couldn't take one step past considering it. But then January happened and I was over the endless contemplation. I was ready to make a move. I needed to move.

And I was still really, terribly afraid of buying a house.

But I couldn't stand the idea of continuing to do nothing but think and spend a ton of resources suffering through an annoying commute. I hated the idea of continuing to wait while I worked up the nerve to buy a house.

I'm sick of putting my happiness on hold indefinitely.

That's how I came back around to the idea of renting.

It took a bit of convincing myself that it was okay. Renting a house was not a failure or a refusal to commit. There wasn't anything wrong with me for pushing aside the American dream for a few more years. Renting a house was practical. Renting would put me where I wanted to be: in a house, by myself, close to work.

My dad's been the one really pushing me to become a homeowner. So I took the easy way out and broke the news of my decision to my mother.

This house thing isn't going to happen for a while. I don't feel settled enough. I am not ready to commit to somewhere for a long period of time so I'm just going to look for somewhere to rent in the area. And would you mind mentioning this to Dad?

She seemed to understand and maybe even think it was a good choice, which I was grateful for. She did her part and told my father. A few days later, I stopped by their house for dinner. I mentioned a few houses for rent that I was interested in looking at and he didn't say a word to try to dissuade me from my decision. He offered to check out the houses with me.

It was a big relief. And it was so nice to be able to move forward and be proactive about changing an aspect of my life that I was no longer happy with. It felt productive. I spent a week or two combing through listings and picturing myself living here or there. There were real possibilities. I sent out emails. I made a few phone calls.

I moved forward. Feeling very much like I was doing the right thing as I did.

Saturday, February 22, 2014

Lucy invited me for dinner tonight and, since I don't have any plans for today and she or Chet makes dinner the majority of the time that I'm over at their house, I offered to bring the meal.

"Oh, how about you bring dessert? I'll make dinner."

Her husband, Chet, keeps kosher and only eats kosher meat. Same with Baby A. When Chet cooks, his meals are 85% meat, 5% hummus and 10% rice or bread. When Lucy makes dinner, she usually make a vegetarian main dish.

Lucy said she was making dinner, so I assumed I was good to go ahead with a dessert that contains dairy. I settled on Key Lime Pie. On my way to the grocery store, I called just to check. "You're not making meat for dinner, right?"

Oh. Okay. They're making chicken shawarma. Which is information that is kind of important to have if I am making dessert. Because, while I've come up with plenty of nondairy desserts in the time that I've known Chet, dessert generally has dairy. And because I am not a damn mind reader.

This isn't the first time this has happened.

I h-h-h-h-h-h-hate when she does that. I am more than happy to make a dessert that Chet can eat and still keep kosher. There are plenty of desserts that I can make. I don't want to leave anyone out. And I don't want to spend a few hours on a dessert that can't be enjoyed and that I end up feeling guilty and/or stupid for bringing over.

Come on, Lucy. At least give me a chance at succeeding.

I should know to always check.

I just hate asking because it feels like I'm making accommodating Chet an inconvenience or a big deal and it's not. I really am happy to do it. I just need to know. Help me out a little.

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

It probably seems like I've been setting all of this housingtalk up for when I start house hunting but, well, I don't know.

I really don't know.

My life feels very unstable.

It’s why I’ve been dragging my feet on making any progress towards buying a house.

My life doesn’t feel stable enough to do it.

I am aware that a house is potentially a good investment and that renting here in the humble suburbs isn’t ideal but I continue to come around to this house being an anchor that’s going to limit where I go and what I do and I can’t get past that. Call me a commitment phobe if you must.

Simply put: I don’t feel settled enough to be able to commit to living in one place for the next 7-10 years.

I’ve been trying to convince myself that this is a good, smart decision and I haven’t been able to get there. My life feels too unstable. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. And it seems to me that maybe if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing that it is wise to limit your scope of responsibility so that, if you do find yourself in the business of ruining things, what you can ruin is limited to the bare minimum.

Monday, February 17, 2014

The commute – both the cost and the irritation – was the tipping point. One too many bad drives and one spin ‘round a commute calculator made me realize that it was time to move out of Liz’s house but it isn’t the only contributing factor.

In some ways, I’ve been ready to move out for a long time.

I wanted to move out for the entirety of Liz’s 9 month relationship with Fluff. They were always respectful but it was just awkward to be in a house with a couple. It was weird walking in the door at night to them hanging out on the couch. It was strange coming downstairs to the two of them having coffee in the morning. I always felt like I was interrupting something. I was always hidden away upstairs – in my bedroom or in the office – because I felt like I was in the way.

It’s only weirder now that Liz is dating around. She’s calmed down a bit since the beginning of the year but for a while she was really, really dating around. And I was regularly playing the role of the random girl in yoga pants who would show up in the kitchen, interrupting yet another second date. I never got the impression that it bothered Liz but it's never been a situation that I have enjoyed beyond having a few good stories about the parade of weirdos in the living room.

There is also the matter of living in someone else's home. It would be different if Liz and I were sharing an apartment that we were both leasing. We would be equals. But the house is her house and I am always going to abandon the sporting event/random documentary that I'm watching in the living room if I get the impression that she wants to watch the awful reality television of her choosing. It's her television. It's her couch. It's her house.

In addition to feeling like I am eternally trying to be a gracious houseguest, living with Liz makes me feel like I am just short of being a real adult. It makes me feel like I am Liz's poor, loser cousin who she is charitably giving a place to stay. It's not the truth but it's often how it feels.

Especially now that I know how much Liz makes per year. She doesn't need me in that house. Not even close.

And, finally, there is the issue of Liz's dog. Mia is a complete terror. She is perfectly sweet when it is just the two of us but the minute someone else walks in the door – or past the door – or parks their car near the house and she is The Worst. A total sociopath of a barking menace. It's so annoying and, for whatever reason, Liz has never really made an effort to train that dog. I hate to say it (because Liz loves her so) but Mia is awful.

Like I said: she can be sweet.

Mia hates little kids, which means Lucy has been to the house exactly one time since I moved in (approximately three weeks before Baby A was born). Mia hates adults, too, which means she gets shipped to Liz's mom every time Liz has a party. She's just so bad that it isn't even worth having anyone over and putting up with the dog's anxiety, which comes out as aggression. Eventually the dog settles down but it's just hell until she does. It's not worth it.

Mia's the perfect size to jump up and punch The Coach in the junk when he's over (while maniacally barking), which is behavior that I find infuriating. I especially love the part where I leave her outside, to keep her from punching him in the junk, and she just barks incessantly. It really creates a special ambiance. The Coach isn't a big dog person to begin with (yes, I also think that's potentially a very big red flag) and Mia does nothing to help the situation.

Needless to say, I don't have a lot of friends over. Seriously. Let's meet for coffee so we don't have to deal with the untrained dog princess and so I don't have to feel like an awful person for inviting someone to be barked at for 20 stressful minutes. Followed shortly thereafter to her rubbing affectionately up against whomever it was she was previously trying to kill.

I have learned to live with Mia, just like I've learned to live with all of the other imperfect aspects of living with Liz. (Just as she's learned to live with the imperfect aspects of living with me, I imagine.) But I think there's something to be said for knowing when it is time to move on. And it's time to move on.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

I have been living with my cousin Liz for over two years. As a whole, the living situation has been great. The house is close to where I used to work and it is in a community a very modest distance from where Lucy and Chet lived and not too terribly far from Mom and Dad’s and where I play soccer and all of the other places that I find myself going somewhat frequently. I’ve enjoyed spending so much time with Liz; we’re closer than we were before we lived together. As roommates, our neuroses are compatible and our beds are both always made. I’m glad that I can keep an eye on the house and the dog when she travels for work, which is quite frequently.

But it’s time for me to move out.

When I took my job last July, I knew that it meant that my time in Liz’s house was limited.

Although, truthfully, I’ve always felt like my time in Liz’s house was limited. She’s a relationship person. As in, she’s never not in a relationship and those relationships move quickly. As a result, I always felt that, eventually, some guy would be moving in (for a year, I thought that guy would be her ex-boyfriend Fluff) and I would be moving out. I would enjoy the living arrangements while I could.

When I started my job, I knew that the commute would get old. It requires a stretch on a highway that is forever a mess at rush hour when the weather is cooperative. In bad weather – which we have had plenty of this winter – it can be a nightmare. And it has been.

I’ve been gritting my teeth and putting up with it. It’s beyond my control and, on most days, I can show up whenever the hell I please. So I drink my coffee and listen to NPR and try not to look at the clock. It’s okay.

A few weeks ago, I got curious and plugged all of the pertinent information for my drive into a commute calculator. I don’t pay Liz a ton of money to live at her house, but I’m driving 20 miles each way. When you add the cost of my commute to what I’m paying in rent, I’m not really saving any money. And, on a day with a snowstorm during rush hour, I could spend 90 minutes getting to work.

Living here was convenient but it isn’t anymore. That’s the lesson I have learned this winter.

It is time to move out.

I am ready to move out and I am ready to do it soon. I would like to get it done early this spring: before I’m busy organizing summer season soccer, before the half-marathon I’m running, before The Coach comes home, before I have to dedicate entire weekends to planning my cousin Anna’s wedding shower, before a huge work project really gets rolling, before I start finalizing details for my trip to Brazil.

I would move next weekend if I could. That clearly isn’t happening but I am not above wishing that it could. My head is full of everything I want and need to do – believe me, this is only the beginning of what I’m going to write on this subject – and I wouldn’t mind skipping past all of it and hiring a few movers.

It has just started and I’m already absolutely done with the entire process. I just want to be home.

Friday, February 14, 2014

I have never had a Valentine's Day that is worthy of a Hallmark commercial and I don't even think that I'm the type of girl who would appreciate a Valentine's Day that is worthy of a Hallmark commercial.

And I'm pretty sure the biggest box of chocolate I ever got from a boy was when I was in fifth grade and the teacher assigned us each a secret valentine. Mine was a blonde boy named Ryan who I thought was so cute. He got me a huge heart-shaped box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

I was careless and left it out and my dog ate the entire box.

(The dog was fine, by the way.)

But I still love Valentine's Day. I love the pink and the red and the x's and o's and the chocolate. I love a reason to buy a little something for those who I really love. I am dropping off presents for Mom and Dad on my lunch hour. I'm babysitting for Lucy and Chet's little guys tonight -- the boys will get clothes that they won't appreciate; I am bringing Lucy and Chet each a bar of chocolate and a photo magnet with pictures from last summer's vacation.

And a certain someone is on a road trip with his team this weekend, so he got his valentine earlier in the week.

What else do you get for that guy in your life who is not your boyfriend? A gentleman who is an unapologetic ass man and a huge fan of sugar cookies?

His reaction to his special batch of sugar cookies was hilarious and perfect and exactly the reason I baked them for him in the first place. He was equal parts impressed with my baking skills and a letting his head to go places that were -- umm -- outside of the bakery. I nearly cried because I was laughing so hard.

I hope your day is full of love or inappropriate baked goods or both, friends. You're all my valentines, too.

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Come this November, I will have been blogging for 10 years. I have kept up with blogging for so long for a number of reasons: I blog because I enjoy to write, I blog because I enjoy the friendship with other bloggers, I blog so that I have a record of who I was and what was important to me, I blog because I enjoy it. And I blog because it's so comforting to know that I am not alone.

All of my crazy fears and illogical thoughts are not unique to me even though, when I am having them, that's exactly how it feels. When I get around to writing it all down (usually in a nonsensical rant), I am invariably met with "I feel the same way." It never fails to calm me down.

My post on Monday wasn't really about the money. I mean, yeah, I would be happy to make a lot more and I would be so awesome at spending it. So awesome. But what is there, other than money, to compare when it comes to careers? There's no scale to measure the positive difference Liz is making at her job to the difference that I'm making at mine. Our career satisfaction isn't audited in a scientific and impartial way. So, I sneaked a look at her W-2 and it basically felt like that form was declaring her 75% better than me.

No, that doesn't make sense.

I knew when I was writing that I didn't make any sense.

But sometimes my feelings don't.

I blog about those feelings anyway. I suppose that's just another reason that I've been blogging for nearly 10 years: because I don't have to make sense all of the time. I can be illogical and still someone will understand me. What ever would I do without you all?

Monday, February 10, 2014

I am very determined to not write about the Olympics today because I am fairly certain that my high-volume Olympic watching isn't what you're clicking over to read about (what are you clicking over to read about?) and it might be better to leave the sports analysis to the experts.

I hope you're not clicking over to read expert analysis on anything. Including my life.

I'm just winging it. All of it. And I'm pretty sure you all know that. You're a perceptive bunch.
I wonder what it would take for me to feel like I have it together and like I wasn't winging it all the damn time. A house of my own? A ring on my finger? A larger bra size? A tiny human who I'm raising? A bigger bank account? A better self-esteem?

Do I need all of the above? If so, I might not even try.

Last week, I saw my cousin Liz's W-2. Liz and I are the exact same age and, therefore, I find it very easy to compare myself to her. When I saw the W-2 just sitting out, I knew that I should run in the other direction (because I was traumatized by the damn thing last year) and I looked anyway and, well, she easily makes nearly four times what I make.

(It's weird how things are valued, isn't it?)

Yes, it's just money and I know that Liz is incredibly far from being effortlessly happy.

No, that awareness didn't make me feel like any less of a failure.

Today Liz was accepted into an MBA program. I coped with the news the exact way I cope when I find out someone's pregnant or engaged: I go overboard. I ran out to buy her a t-shirt and a card.

Liz dates losers and she has a dysfunctional relationship with her sister and she's always crash dieting but at least one star in her universe is shining. At least she's killing it somewhere.

I am just so average. Average to below average. I am not killing it anywhere. I am okay at a lot of things. Pretty bad at some others.

Saturday, February 08, 2014

Today I was the recipient of a rare and wonderful present: the gift of cancelled plans.

Instead of spending too much time in the car and too many hours running around, I wore yoga pants and never did my hair and wasted the day.

It was the greatest day I have had in a while.

I got up early. 6:45 am. The same time the coffee grinder goes off every weekday morning. I considered going back to sleep but it never happened. I scrolled through Twitter. Deleted emails. Researched the start time of today's event in Olympic figure skating. Finally got up, turned my beloved Olympic games on the television and made coffee.

I watched the Olympics from 7:30 this morning until 3:00 this afternoon. I have no regrets. I took a few breaks. Once, I stopped for a shower because that's hygienic. Another time, I rolled out a batch of cookies that Lucy and I have plans to decorate early next week.

But mostly I just watched the Olympics because there were no shortage of Olympic events to watch. There was a wealth of figure skating. I couldn't turn it off. While NBC trims the figure skating events to only show the Americans and the front runners, I could get the full event online and on the Canadian broadcast (Canada gets it right and airs events live; Detroit gets it right and gets one Canadian station). I love watching all of the skaters. Even the bad ones. I love watching an Olympic dream come true. And it's comforting to know that I could have represented Israel as a pairs skater, too.

Meg called me in the afternoon and, when I confessed to how I was spending the day, she (who had been watching a lot of Olympic coverage, too) consoled me. "It's going to be nighttime in Sochi and there won't be any more events to watch."

When that happened, I went to the gym. Where I watched a replay of the skiathon competition from the treadmill. While getting in a leisurely five miles. I love -- and rarely have -- a trip to the gym where I am in absolutely no hurry. I got in my run. I hung out in the steam room. I was really slow getting dressed and I wasn't mad at myself for wasting time.

I cooked a big dinner and started on lunched for next week. I did a load or two of laundry. I wished The Coach good luck. I drank too much coffee. I meant to polish my nails and never did it. I finished the book that I was reading. I made another batch of cookies but I haven't baked them yet. I will, soon. That's part of my big plan for tonight. That and watching The Coach's game and the NBC primetime replay of figure skating might be on the television right now.

I like to hear what the different announcers have to say about each skater's program. And what else am I going to do? Something productive? It's a little too late for that.

Thursday, February 06, 2014

I have this very vivid memory of being 15 years old and awake hours before any of my family members, watching the women's figure skating final at the Nagano Olympics. I was on break from school, but that didn't stop me from waking up in the wee hours of the morning to watch Tara Lipinski win a gold medal.

I was insanely jealous of her. It was easy to be: we were the exact same age. I was also a figure skater (though my skating was on the back burner; soccer was far more important to me at that age). We skated at the same rinks in the same town. I didn't know her but I knew her. She with so much talent. She who threw temper tantums on the ice. She with the crazy stage mom.

Oh, and there was the small fact that she had just done exactly what I had forever dreamed of doing: won an Olympic gold medal.

I was 15. Of course I was jealous.

So, the winter Olympics started today and among the first day's events was FIGURE SKATING. Which means that on NBC tonight there will be FIGURE SKATING. And, seriously you guys, I apologize in advance for how much I mention FIGURE SKATING over the next two weeks. I can't get enough. And I'm not even jealous anymore.

I'm too old to be jealous.

I'm too old to be a figure skater, too.

But I'm not too old to watch!

Any Olympic junkies out there? Summer? Winter? What events make your heart soar?

I love it all -- and hockey is obviously right up there -- but figure skating will always hold a special place in my sequin-encrusted heart.

Tuesday, February 04, 2014

Here is a mildly embarrassing story from the weekend: Meg, my younger sister, had to give me the Heimlich on Saturday.

We
were standing at the kitchen counter, Meg was telling Emma a story
about one of her patients and I heated up some leftover steak and rice. I
was quite engaged in the story, happily chomping on beef and paying no
attention. It was my last bite. It went down wrong. I had two seconds
where I was like "hmmm, this doesn't seem right. Am I choking? I must be
choking."

What's weird is that I didn't panic.

There wasn't
even a fraction of a second where I was at all freaked out or nervous
or otherwise panicked. I gestured to Meg. I turned around. She gave me
one thrust and I was in the clear. No big thing.

I wasn't scared. It wasn't scary. Maybe it's
because Meg works in healthcare and is generally pretty capable with
these sorts of things or because she's incredibly ripped and there was no way she wasn't going to shoot that piece of steak right out of me or because I am so certain that, as my sister, she
would never let anything happen to me.

Because she wouldn't. I am sure.

Almost as sure as I am that she'll never, ever let me forget that she saved my life.

Monday, February 03, 2014

We got a lot of snow this weekend. But it was also in the low 30s and that makes it all quite tolerable. The hard part about this winter hasn't been the snow (which I really don't mind) it's the cold (which as been absolutely brutal).

I was dogsitting for Mom and Dad, who were gone for the weekend, so I got to enjoy the snowy lakeside.

Gorgeous.

Friday night was like most Friday nights: movie night at Lucy and Chet's house.

I spent Saturday with Meg and our cousin Emma. It's been a long time since the three of us spent a Saturday doing what we do best: baking brownies, shopping, eating and impersonating a threesome of lazy slugs.

Meggie and I painted the monograms that I recently bought via Etsy. I pictured mine on my very big, very blank office wall but I am not quite convinced that my office wall is where it will reside. We'll see. I love it.

I know that monograms are very current at the moment, but I've been obsessed with them for years. My mom and all of her sisters have gold monogram necklaces from their grandmother. In turn, our grandma bought a gold monogram necklace for me, Meg and all of our cousins for our college graduation gift. It is such a special, classy piece of jewelry. I love the idea of having my monogram on my wall and it giving me the same happy feeling that I get every time I put on that necklace.

I spent a good part of the weekend stuck in a book. Blog friend extraordinaire Kristin recommended it; Laura seconded the suggestion. I like it but I am not obsessed. I am guessing the obsession comes later (I'm not yet halfway through) because these gals have impeccable taste in books and, well, pretty much everything else.

Perhaps the best part of the weekend was a big, big win for The Coach and for his team. It was a huge upset and a really important victory and I watched online and felt so, so happy for him and so proud of him. He sent me a text message just after the game -- it's always nice to feel included in what he's doing so far away -- and my heart nearly burst into a thousand happy pieces while I attempted to type the right words to congratulate him. He got a proper congratulations later but, it was fun to tell him that he was awesome right in the midst of it. And it was even more fun to hear all about it. I'm happy for him.

I have a lot feelings about his coaching and what it requires of him and about his current job and everything that surrounds it. I have even more feelings about him and I and whether I am making a huge mistake. I have one foot in and one foot out at the moment. I'm unsure and pretty stuck in my head about it: I'm not really ready to write about it and I'm not looking for advice. I'm just letting things simmer. It seems to be working for me.

Uncertain as I may be at the moment, it is simply awesome to see him do well. He works really hard. He earns his success. I want the best for him. I am sure of that.

Saturday, February 01, 2014

I had a lot of reasons to be grateful in January. I always have a lot of reasons to be grateful; this year is all about acknowledging it. Here is a very incomplete list that represents an impossibly small percentage of the many things that I am grateful for this month:

Safe arrivals at the end of a lot of harrowing commutes.

The steam room at my gym.

Lotions, body butters, baby oil and all other potions that aren't exactly keeping all of my winter skin woes at bay but are managing to prevent me from turning into 5'2" of shoe leather.

Hi. I'm A.

Born, raised, educated in the Midwest, I am such a Midwesterner. So Midwestern, if you will.

I am: a blogger of 8+ years, forever searching for my next athletic challenge, hopelessly overscheduled and always, always eating.

I started So Midwestern right after I graduated from college, hoping to chronicle my transition to adulthood. Graduate school, four half marathons, two new nephews, three apartments, a trip to Africa, a sprinkle of heartbreak, dozens of unfinished knitting projects, four turns as a bridesmaid, 8,913 job applications and two full-time positions later: I’m fairly convinced that the day when I feel like a legitimate, full-fledged grownup will never come. So I’ll just keep on blogging.

I write about a little bit of everything and a lot of nothing. Toss my ramblings with a few pictures, a touch of swearing and an endless appreciation for the beauty that is David Beckham and you have So Midwestern. Welcome.